


Have a Drink

by Kokolo



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Beer, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Post-Battle, Pre-Slash, Underage Drinking, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokolo/pseuds/Kokolo
Summary: Following their latest failure at the hands of the X-Men, Pietro wants to get drunk. Lance obliges.
Relationships: Lance Alvers & Pietro Maximoff
Kudos: 16





	Have a Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr](https://whattheficery.tumblr.com/post/128867101184/fic-have-a-drink) September 11, 2015.
> 
> Edited by the always fab Mugsandpugs <3

An ass kicking courtesy of the local nerd brigade drove them back home in shamed silence, separating to nurse wounds and brood. 

Lance was usually content to angst about their most recent failures alone. It sloshed together with all the other bad decisions and horrible things that were happening to him until that dark tidal wave washed over him and exhausted him to the point where he passed out. Tonight, however, he had company. There was a white blur drifting somewhere outside of his peripheral, appearing in his doorway and near the end of his bed. Years ago it might have scared him. Now he just sat up and waited for the shape to solidify.

“I’d like to be drunk now.” Pietro said. “Can that happen? Can that be a thing that happens right now?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Lance stood shakily, favoring his left side. He wobbled on his feet, grabbed the doorjamb, and steadied himself. “That can happen.”

Pietro blinked out of sight. Lance shuffled through the dark house, blindly searching for his keys, tripping over boxes and garbage and cursing for the sake of it. He stopped to check on Todd and Freddy, speaking softly so they wouldn’t turn on him like wounded animals. Todd grumbled some slang at him and slimed his door shut. Fred lifted a shoulder, winced, and lowered it again to rub the soreness out. Lance left the house unlocked and dark and joined Pietro in the Jeep. 

The ride to the liquor store was quiet. Lance parked down the street and walked up. Lance could pass for twenty-one. Pietro could not, but the security cameras couldn’t pick him up, so while Lance brought what he could afford Pietro grabbed what he wanted. The employee remarked about a draft and Lance shrugged. 

Lance thought about grabbing enough for all of them, but at the present moment they couldn’t afford such luxury. Besides, the Brotherhood were disruptive drunks, at best. Todd got very angry and then tipped into frustrated tears. Lance sometimes lost control of his ability and knocked himself over. Fred and Pietro were very hard to get drunk - Fred because of his girth and Pietro because of his metabolism. But Pietro had asked him, and no one else seemed to be interested tonight. He’d treat the other two some other time. 

“God you even drink boring beer.” Pietro remarked, sitting beside Lance on the concrete slab they called a back porch. He tipped a newly-lifted bottle of vodka to his lips and drank.

“At least I don’t look like I’m a fucking alcoholic. Jesus ‘Tro. Easy.”

“I said I want to be drunk.” Pietro spat, licking his lips of lingering drops. “I am getting drunk.”

“How many of those did you grab?”

“Six pack. Same as you.” 

“Jesus.”

That was all Lance said on the subject. He tipped his own beer back into his mouth and leaned with it. When he couldn’t hold any more he tipped forward, breaking off the bottle with a satisfied pop. Pietro shivered next to him, shook his head. Lance caught him staring and tongued the neck of the bottle, keeping eye contact until Pietro broke off laughing and shoved him. 

"Fucking- knock it off." Pietro wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The slur in his voice was gone by the second sentence. "You're a tease."

"I'm not drunk yet."

"I didn't say you were." More vodka. "I said you were a tease. Are you losing your hearing already?"

“No.”

Lance set the bottle between his legs, rolling the edge on the concrete. Pietro continued to drink, chasing after the buzz that was already starting in Lance's veins. Some part of Lance pitied him, because he knew there were immediate benefits to self-medicating, and all Quicksilver ever seemed to want were quick fixes. The rest of Lance was gawking in awe at the skinny fuck downing a bottle of ninety proof and then immediately opening another without puking his guts out. 

“How drunk-”

“Wha?” Pietro interrupted, ripping the bottle from his mouth to give Lance his full attention.

“How drunk did you want to get again?”

“Enough.” He held out the bottle. “Do you want some?”

“No, no. Thanks.” Lance lifted his beer and swirled it. “I don’t want to puke. Just go fuzzy for a while.”

“Same.” Pietro tipped back a few mouthfuls and then the slur was back. “Lucky.”

Nodding, Lance finished his first bottle and opened another. He didn’t want to compete with Pietro. He’d learned a while ago trying to match bottle for bottle, even though his were significantly smaller, ended with his face in the toilet and Pietro laughing at him. Still, he felt like he was falling behind. His beer was already going warm. Lance downed half of it and leaned back, eyes shut, listening to the house creak behind them and Pietro drink and stop to pant and drink some more. He opened his eyes and leaned forward again and grunted. His bruises would be bad in the morning. A least he was forgetting the fight.

For a moment, while he was preoccupied with chugging another bottle, Lance studied Pietro. He didn’t look much different, beer goggles or no. He was the same narrow kind of pretty that Lance hadn’t really ever seen before. He still had a sort of desperation about him beneath the aloofness - right now the intense desire to get drunk for a reason he wasn’t really intent on sharing but Lance suspected had to do with the fight. There were marks on his arm and a scratch on his cheek. He’d forgotten to check on Pietro before when he checked on the other two.

“You get hurt bad?” Lance asked. 

“Nah.” Pietro turned the drained bottle over and frowned at the drip that landed on his pant leg. “Back hurts. Landed on my ass. You?”

“Scott fucked me up. Hurt my right arm blocking Icebag.”

“Jackasses.”

“Yeah.” Lance drank. “How drunk did you want to get again?”

“Enough.”

“Right.” Lance swallowed. “Why?”

“Enough.” Pietro repeated. 

Lance took another drink and mulled that over. Pietro put the bottle down and pressed his body into Lance’s right side, which had Lance hissing and arching away. Pietro backed away, offended, until the haze lifted and he remembered what Lance had said about his injuries. In the blink of an eye he was on Lance’s other side, pressing there instead. Lance bent with the pressure, but didn’t break away. He lifted his arm and let Pietro in, looping it around his shoulder. In the process he accidentally put Quicksilver in a headlock trying to take a drink, but other than a swift jab to the side Pietro was content to slump in place. 

Some time passed in silence, Pietro buried in Lance’s side and Lance nursing a beer and a half with his bad arm so Pietro wouldn’t be choked. The third bottle of vodka was only half gone. Lance was almost done with his. Pietro didn't bother to take another drink, instead setting the bottle down and away from his legs. He folded his arms over his stomach, looking up at Lance until Lance looked back at him.

“You have enough yet?” Lance asked, raising a brow. 

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. I think so.” Pietro stretched against Lance’s side and pushed his head against his shoulder. “I don’t like how it tastes anymore.”

“Hide it for next time.” Pietro made a noncommittal sort of noise. "Or don't. I didn't pay for it."

“Are you drunk yet?”

“Maybe. A little.” Lance drained his third beer and set it with the others. “I think that’s enough.”

Lance let his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Pietro rose and fell with his chest easily, like he didn't weigh anything. He pressed hard into the nook Lance made for him, all elbows and ribs and small twitches. Cool fingers wrapped around Lance's wrist and brought his limp, beerless arm tight around Pietro's neck. They threaded between Lance's knuckles and bent in the spaces between his fingers, holding tight enough that the white knuckles went whiter.

“You know I don’t have to be drunk for this, right?” Lance reminded him. It bore repeating. Sometimes Pietro forgot he didn't mind this kind of thing nearly as much as Pietro assumed he did. 

“No, but I do.”

“But you’re not.”

“Close enough.” Pietro shifted deeper into Lance’s side. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not. S’okay.” Lance hid his not-laughter in Pietro’s hair. “Want to stay with me tonight?”

"I'm not desperate for company, you know. I could have anyone. I just have to point."

"I know." Lance breathed in the smell of smoke and dirt and sweat and something sweet that was probably shampoo. "Whenever you're ready."

Pietro went still. Lance pretended not to notice that Pietro was clinging to him, totally sober despite the smell on his hands and breath. Pietro's impulsive kisses on his jaw were sloppy, drunken attempts at affection and not at all soft and calculated. When Pietro stood up straight with no loss of balance, Lance looked at his feet. He took Pietro’s offered hand and stumbled and fell into Pietro's embrace clumsily and blamed him for being the clumsy one. He pretended that he had to be drunk to enjoy it, to hum and hug him tighter, because that's what Pietro knew was plausible, and anything kinder sent him running for the hills- literally. 

"That's a shame." Lance said to himself, leaning heavily on Pietro's shoulders while they walked into the house. 

"What's a sham?"

"We are."

"Mm. Shh." Pietro guided him to the couch without tripping. "You'll forget in the morning."

Lance shook his head, but Pietro didn't see it. He set Lance down first, sped away, and then reappeared with a blanket. Lance watched him do it, but Pietro didn't watch him. Instead he found his nook under Lance's good arm and nested there, wrapped in cloth, draping some over Lance's lap to be fair, and shut his eyes. Lance felt his heartbeat and breath, both still too fast to be impaired by sleep or drink, and played along. He fell asleep in minutes, and let Pietro pretend.


End file.
